


AKA Looks Like Love

by afalcone10



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mind Control, Mind Rape, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:52:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afalcone10/pseuds/afalcone10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Jessica Jones and Kilgrave, as seen by passerby who don't get involved. What do they see? What do they want to see? One shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AKA Looks Like Love

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished watching the entire Jessica Jones series on Netflix--which I don't own! Loved it.
> 
> The show got me thinking about what people see and what they think they see, and how they react. The people who are under Kilgrave's mind control, they know something's up but they, of course, are powerless to do anything about it. What about the people who see KIlgrave and Jessica, but aren't involved with the situation--and then forget all about it and get on with their lives?

...

A fist to the face.

**POW!**

A kick to the ribs.

**THWACK!**

Again.

**THWACK!**

_Again._

**THWACK!**

His body’s on fire, hot blood gushing, streaming, flowing all over his face, getting in his eyes, dripping on his tongue.

“Give me your wallet,” one of them orders. “Give me your wallet, asshole.”

 _Yeah, like I can move right now_ , Malcolm thinks.

“Just end him, bro,” the other tells his buddy.

 _This is it._ If Malcolm could move his body, he would have tensed, waiting for it. He feels hands on him, searching, not punching.

He pictures his mother….

And … nothing. No hands. No killing blow.

Sounds. Grunts. Something being dropped. Something being thrown. Not something, he thinks, _someone_ being dropped, _someone_ being thrown. And again. And again. Was that a car? Was that … wood?

He hears footsteps coming closer to him. Lighter, not his attackers—did they just get the crap beaten out of them too? He hears faint breathing, different from before. He tries to open his eyes, feels the blood on his eyelashes, weighing his eyelids down. Who did this? Who saved him?

Clapping. Clapping? Yes, clapping. Applause.

“ALL RIGHT!” some guy says. “YES!”

There’s more clapping now.

“That was _absolutely_ tremendous! And I thought I was good,” that same guy says, with a British accent. He’s cheery, amused, like he was watching a sports game at a bar.

He’s talking to his savior, Malcolm dully thinks.

“ _You_ are a sight to behold. Isn’t she amazing? Yeah?” the guy continues.

There must be an audience. They’re silent. Whoever his savior is, she—she?—is silent too.

Malcolm tries to move his head to see what’s going on, and ends up blacking out from the pain.

He comes to a little later, and the first thing he hears is this guy and this … woman? … are still there, still talking. Dimly, he can make out the shadows.

“No no no no no. Your _superhero_ name. You must have one,” the guy says.

Superhero name?

“Just … Jessica Jones.”

 _Jessica Jones_ , Malcolm thinks. He can’t really open his mouth and verbalize just yet. Though it might be good if he tried, since clearly this guy and Jessica Jones have forgotten all about him.

“Really? Rather plain, but that’s fine. Jessica Jones. Fine,” the guy says, chuckling. “There’s a fantastic Szechuan place ‘round the corner. You like Chinese. C’mon.” A moment passes. “ _C’mon_. I have to know _everything_ about you.”

 _No! Don’t go!_ Malcolm thinks, struggling to get himself up, to make a noise, to make Jessica Jones and that guy remember him, help him, aid him—anything! Holding onto the fence for strength, he forces every cell in his body to move, and slowly he lifts his head, then sits upright. He spits out a mouthful of blood he’d been trying to expel for a while, though his mouth still tastes just as bloody. Breathing heavily, he takes his hat off to wipe the blood off his face, but before he does, he looks down the street.

Two dark figures, one male and scrawny, one female and lithe, are walking down the street holding hands, barely illuminated by the dim streetlights. They’re walking away from him, just like that. Strange, that he won’t know either of their faces—looks like he never will, since they’re walking away from him.

He knows a name though: Jessica Jones. He'll never forget it. Hell, he'll never forget this night, this crazy, weirdass night. 

…

Mary doesn’t quite like Italian food, but it’s Marty’s birthday, his 73rd, and he’s always loved Italian. God knows why, when there’s French cuisine, but he’d taken her to La Grenouille for her birthday, her 70th, and now it was her turn. He’d found this little place on the Yelp website on his computer laptop, and the people said was very good, very authentic.

She knows Marty’s ordering for her, so she decides to have a look around the restaurant instead. She loves seeing all the young people who put on a nice dress or a nice pair of slacks for a Saturday night out on the town.

Her eyes rest on the couple seated at the table in the private section, by the bathroom door.

My, they’re such a beautiful couple!

The girl looks like Snow White: porcelain skin, black hair, big dark eyes, lush red lips. She’s wearing a dark eggplant-colored one-shoulder dress and looks absolutely divine. And the man, well, he’s quite the looker too! He’s holding her hand, stroking it with his thumb, never taking his eyes away from her. He’s smitten, the poor dear. Absolutely smitten. And she’s the same, her eyes never straying from his face, a smile always on her lips.

Over the years, Mary’s gotten quite used to the nudges and secret smiles shared between young couples. She always feels their eyes whenever Marty holds the chair out for her, stands up when she gets up to go to the bathroom and once again when she comes back.

She knows what they’re thinking and yes, it’s true: it is cute to see her and Marty still out and about and madly in love with each other after 55 years of marriage. She can see it in in their faces, their smooth, young, faces.

She always likes looking right back at them. There’s something to be said about young love, new love, the potential for this couple or that couple to become what they seen when they watch her and Marty. And this couple, the one in the corner, they look spectacular together. She hopes they stay together for a very long time.

Mary gets up to go to the bathroom, just to walk by them and also because your bladder’s a bitch when you get old. My, the two of them even are more handsome up close!

“Bring us a bottle of your finest wine. It’s our one-month anniversary,” the man says to their waiter.

Ooh, and he’s British too! How lovely!

…

Brad’s coming back from the bathroom, and holy fuck, he’s so psyched to be at this nightclub. Part speakeasy, part burlesque club, it’s the hottest bar in New York right now. Best drinks, best DJ, best goddamn looking women he’s ever seen—and him, right here, right now. Good thing the manager is a client.

He scans the VIP section up top, straining to see if the owner is there, somewhere behind the three huge bodyguards. Seems a little excessive but hey, the dude’s making big bucks. Brad doesn’t see the owner—what was his name? Jack? John? Whatever—but he does see this absolutely smoking hot little lady.

She’s real hot. She has these absolutely filthy looking red lips all done up. He imagines them around his cock, gets a little hard. He looks at her for a couple seconds, just imagining, before he sees an arm around her shoulder, thumb stroking the skin. He can’t see the guy, but he can see the huge silver Rolex on his wrist, the fine tailoring of his dark purple suit jacket—purple? Nah, too fruity, must be the lighting. Black suit. Doesn’t matter. Fuck. She’s taken.

Oh well. On to the next one.

…

Antoine’s plane is late. He's already missed his connecting flight in Atlanta. AND he had to walk to another terminal just to find a fucking outlet to charge his fucking phone. Jesus, he hates New York.

Staring out the window, he sees a couple boarding a private jet, a real fucking nice one by the looks of it. A man and a woman, the man in a long dark coat with the collar turned up, obscuring his face. The woman’s in a long coat too, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. The man’s hand is on her lower back, just low enough.

Antoine’s startled by how much it hurts to see that. Now all he can think about is how much he loved doing that to Melanie whenever they were out, just so he could catch the little looks she’d give him under her dark, fluttering eyelashes. Crap. He was doing so good! He hadn’t thought about Melanie for a couple days.

He watches the man let her go first up the stair, his hand still on her back as she glides by him. She looks up at him and kisses him for about a minute before they both go up the stairs. Fuck them. Fuck all of them.

...

Valentine’s Day is coming up. Jack already told Charles to take off that week from work but didn’t tell him why: he’s taking him to Paris, and he can’t wait to see the look on Charles’ face. He’s already looking forward to the moments when they drive around and around the Place de la Concorde before finally stopping at the Hôtel de Crillon, the best hotel in all of Paris. It’s the perfect location: the hotel is within walking distance to the Louvre, the Jardin des Tuileries, the Champs-Élysées, all the best of French fashion houses. It’s perfect. Charles is going to love it.

Jack brings up the hotel’s website and tries to book a suite. It says they’re booked. That’s impossible. He refreshes, tries again. Same thing. Huh. Weird.

It’s worth the international call. He dials, smiling to himself as he hears the rings, the funny way telephones ring in Europe. Someone picks up after a third ring, finally.

In perfect French, he asks to book a suite during the second week in February. All booked, the person on the other end of the line tells him. _Really? Vraiment?_ Yes, all booked. For the whole month, actually. Sorry, monsieur.

And then the French bastard has the nerve to hang up on him!

…

Katie is walking to work, freezing under her thick coat, stomach gnawing because she couldn’t eat breakfast this morning … or dinner last night.

Glancing up, she happens to look in the window of some fancy boutique. All she can see is this tall white chick, twirling around in some long violet dress, like you’d wear on the red carpet or something. She must be a supermodel, she’s so tall and thin and beautiful. Look at her, she’s so happy, that big smile on her face. There’s not an ounce of fat on her body, her long, skinny arms stretched high above her head, the dress belted around her tiny waist.

That dress would never fit you, Katie, you’d probably rip the dress in half. But not this girl, this model. She has absolutely everything you’d ever need in the world, and no wonder she looks so happy. She’s so happy she’s just twirling and twirling and twirling and twirling, the dress flaring out by her ankles.

Lucky bitch.

...

Anaïs secretly loves Ladurée Champs-Élysées. It’s such a tourist trap, it’s awful, she knows, but her little girl just loves the pretty macarons and matching teapots and teacups. Teatime at Ladurée Champs-Élysées is her favorite little ritual with her petite Aurelie. They pretend to be princesses at tea and sip from their cups with their pinkies out. It’s adorable.

They stroll up to the Champs-Élysées, hand-in-hand, and Aurelie is talking so enthusiastically about what she’s learning at school that they don’t notice how quiet it is on the city’s most famous tourist attraction until they look up to cross the street. The street is blocked off, and there isn’t a single car riding to or from the Arc de Triomphe. Bizarre. So bizarre.

“Excuse me, sir,” Anaïs calls out to the policeman right in front of them. He’s standing as stiff as a board, just like all of the other policemen in front of the blockade, with a blank, tight look on his face.

“The Champs-Élysées is closed. No one is to be allowed to get any closer. I’m not to let anyone through,” he says. “Please leave, madame.”

“But sir—”

“I’m not to let anyone through,” he repeats, taking a step towards her.

Her hand goes out in front of Aurelie on instinct. “Maman, what’s happening?” the little girl cries out.

Anaïs picks her up, then turns around and starts walking without saying another word. “Don’t worry sweetie, we’ll go to Angelina’s instead. You’ll love it there. They have hot chocolate as rich and creamy as a melted chocolate bar.”

“Do they have macarons?” Aurelie asks, her thin childish voice wavering a little.

“Do they have macarons? Of course they do!” she cries, smiling and giggling to calm Aurelie down.

 _Plus,_ she thinks, _they don’t have brutish police officers camped outside the door. At least, I hope they don’t._

…

A voice. A man speaking English. Javier rouses himself from his sleep, tries to sit up on the bench.

“Money, please, help,” he manages to say in broken English, or what he hopes is English—his mind’s been gone for a while.

The man ignores him, still chattering away in his awful high-pitched voice, but the girl, she turns and looks at him. There’s sadness in her eyes.

“Jessica, look at me,” the man says, and she snaps her head around.

The man keeps talking. The girl doesn’t look back.

…

Milan Fashion Week is a mess, but it’s the best time of the year for fashion photography. Romano’s been taking photos all week of models and actresses and musicians and editors and bloggers. He makes more during fashion week than he does any other time of the year.

He sees this absolutely gorgeous couple across the street, but that little shit Giorgio is already sidling up to them with his shitty camera. No wonder, they’re a pair, and surely that woman is a model. She certainly looks like one, sashaying down the street in a light violet dress so sheer and translucent it blends into her alabaster skin. The man, well, he’s in purple too, and you don’t see that every day, not even during Fashion Week. Can’t be American, he thinks. American men never wear purple.

The man in purple holds up a hand to wave off Giorgio, and the photographer instantly puts his camera down and walks away. Romano knows better than to try and get his own shot.

…

Rome sucks balls, Jamie thinks to himself as he pushes pasts the loud tourists.

He’s two weeks into his semester abroad and he can’t wait to go home. He misses his mum, Sunday roasts with the family, pub nights with his mates, girls who actually understand his jokes. He even misses the bloody rain! The rain, the grey skies, the piss smell of the Tube, having to carry an umbrella with you everywhere you go, no matter what. All of that.

“I’ll tell you what, you’re going to love this pasta amatriciana. It’s the best in the city,” he hears a man say—a fucking Brit, no less! A fellow countryman!

Jamie looks around, only to see a man with brown hair and a purple suit—an honest to God purple suit, what a wanker. A British wanker, though—walking away with this absolute gorgeous broad, legs for days. The man’s arm is on her bare elbow, guiding her down the street. He seems to have no trouble with the tourists; they’re parting for him like the Red Sea.

“Oy!” Jamie calls out, but the couple doesn’t turn around. God, what he’d do to talk with someone who speaks his own language, who comes from his own mother country. “Oy, you there!”

But he soon gets swallowed up by the crowd of people, and he’s lost the man’s voice, and he’s lost sight of them all together. They’re nowhere to be seen. He’s all alone.

Bollocks.

…

Josephine is stepping out the door, still thinking about the black satin bustier she just spent way too much money on. But it was on sale at the finest lingerie shop in Barcelona, and she looked so good in it. Of course she had to buy it!

A couple’s strolling up to the door, and so she holds the door open for them. The woman is a scrawny little twig, too pale and no tits, but the man, oh yes, he’s a looker. She gives him a sultry smile, the one that always stops men in their tracks, but he doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy looking at the non-existent ass of the woman he came with.

 _If he likes women with the hips of a little boy, no wonder he didn’t look twice at me,_ Josephine thinks to herself. She flashes back to how she looked in the mirror in the dressing room, in those garters and that bustier. There’s nothing wrong with her.

...

David’s been waiting for a cab for over three minutes now. There’s usually a ton of them on this street, what gives? Since when is it this hard to get a cab in Amsterdam?

Up ahead, he sees a cab, lights on, and he starts walking towards it. Just then, two people exit from a restaurant and the man’s hand is up in the air and the cab’s pulling over before David’s even walked a couple feet. _Fuck!_

“Hey! I was waiting for a cab first!” he yells out, but the people don’t even look at him.

He picks up his speed, but it’s too late: The man has already climbed into the cab first, now extending a hand out to the woman. She’s wearing the shortest purple dress he’s ever seen. She climbs in the cab and closes the door.

All David can do is watch as the cab drives past him. He can see the back of the woman’s dark head through the window for a second before the car’s gone.

…

Manuel shuffles around Saks Fifth Avenue, listlessly trying to interest himself in a new pair of cufflinks while his wife shops. He hates shopping. It’s such a chore.

He sees a youngish couple in the Ralph Lauren tie section, the only people around. The man holds up two purple ties, obviously asking the raven-haired beauty in front of him which one she prefers. After a moment, she points her finger at the darker one in the man’s left hand.

The man kisses her forehead. The woman closes her eyes.

Manuel looks away.

...

Alexander looks up at the sky to take a break from spreading out all the mulch. Being a landscaper of Central Park has its’ perks, for sure. Beautiful day out. It’d been a long winter.

He looks over to the lake. Kids are playing with their boats and their kites, their parents reading a newspaper nearby. Curiously, no one’s on the deck of the Central Park Boathouse. That place is usually packed, especially on Sunday mornings. There’s only one couple eating outside. Strange.

Alexander can see a line out the front door, but it’s mostly just people going inside and leaving soon afterwards. The people must have rented the whole place out. He hates this city sometimes. The rich keep getting richer and the poor just keep getting screwed.

He focuses on the couple. He’s pretty far away, but he can tell it's a man and a woman. He watches them make out, the woman even going so far as to get out of her chair and sit on the man’s lap.

Alexander picks up his rake and shakes his head.

…

Philip loves looking out at the Manhattan skyline, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. A view like this makes his long 12-hour days on the trading floor totally worth it.

He can see into the penthouse across the way. Idiots forgot to pull the blinds down and turn the lights off. There’s a man sitting on the bed, shirtless, just wearing black boxers and, weirdly, his socks. His back is on the headboard and he’s looking at the bathroom door, obviously waiting for someone to come out.

Philip is waiting too.

This smoking hot chick finally opens the door. She’s wearing a silky purple kimono-type thing and high heels. Holy shit, it’s like a real-life porno, right in front of him. The man says something to her, and she slowly undoes the tie of the kimono. Manuel sees a sliver of creamy flesh, slowly revealed more and more until she takes the robe off. She’s naked. Holy shit. _Holy shit!_ She crawls on the floor over to the bed, where the man is waiting for her. She climbs onto his lap and starts fucking him right away.

Manuel watches her tits bounce up and down for a bit before he puts the glass down and sticks his hand down his pants.

…

Well, there goes all the vodka. Svetlana sets her glass down, a little harder than she normally would, but it’s still not enough to make the older, heavyset man seated across from her stop talking or at least look away from her breasts.

He’s such a creep. _A rich creep,_ she reminds herself.

She plays with the strings of the dress he bought her. It’s sinfully soft, and of course it is. It’s the nicest piece of clothing she’s ever worn. She hates it. She hates herself. She hates everything.

Bored, she looks around the hotel bar. She’s been here so many times with this loser, the beautiful decorations have even lost their charm. It’s not like he can’t afford to go somewhere else.

She sees a couple enter the lobby. A man and a woman. The man is smiling, talking, laughing. His arm is around the woman. Her head is down, but Svetlana can see she isn’t nearly having as much fun as the man. And of course, the man doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.

The woman picks her head up, and looks straight at Svetlana. As soon as she does that, Svetlana can see it in her eyes that the woman is miserable. She doesn’t want to be here anymore than Svetlana does. No one else seems to notice. They always see what they want to see. The woman looks away just as quickly.

 _I know the feeling, sister,_ Svetlana thinks, watching the man guide the woman to the concierge.

After a long moment, she turns back to the man and pushes her arms together, forcing her boobs to spill out of her dress even more. “Buy me another drink?” she giggles.

…

Andre's smoking his last cigarette when a woman wobbles past him. She’s in this huge, oversized fur coat with these tottering heels. Hooker, most likely. He watches her walk down the street. _Drunk hooker_ , he amends, as she stumbles.

Weird thing is, she keeps turning back every couple of steps, like she’s looking for someone. Andre turns his head—there’s no one behind him. And he hasn’t moved since she breezed past him, so it can’t be him, right? So what's with the owl movements? What is she so scared of?

He watches her continue down the street. At the end of the block, he sees her lean against a wall for a second or two, before she turns the corner. She's gone now.

_Whatever._

_..._

There’s a knock on Malcolm’s door. He looks through the peephole. It’s some white guy, brown hair, brown eyes, pointy eyebrows and an even pointier face. Never seen him before.

As soon as the door opens, the guy starts talking. “Tell me, are you the idiot that Jessica Jones saved from getting the bleeding day lights kicked out of him on the night I met her, several months ago?”

“Yes.” The answer is out of Malcolm's mouth before he even thought about it. Huh. Jessica Jones. It’s that guy, with that voice, from that night …

“Excellent.” The guy grins. “Here's what you're going to do for me ...”


End file.
